Saturday, August 6, 2016

sweat or rain

I don't know if it is sweat or rainthat makes me so moist on days when even downpour can'trelieve the heaviness the air, my lifeis built around such conflusions, theinability to distinquish betweenthose elements that define ourexistance, the good and bad, rightor wrong, the beauty from the ugly,and at times, I do not even knowjust how I feel, the mingling ofemotions that streer me this way andthat, as if the compas that I haveinside is drawn not just to thenorth pole but also to distraction,I am like a child in theproverbial candy shop, myfingers already sticky fromfrom all the possible choices, leavingmy finger print on the glassbefore this treat or that, needingnot just to see or touch but alsoto taste each before my mindcan be made up and possiblynot even then, I am always the child inside, staring out fromthe candy shop, suffering thetorments of weather I cannotcontrol, and worse, don't want to.

time bomb

I hear the tick of the clock
and think it is my heart
or a time bomb
or the slow ticking down
when the road comes to an end
coming or going
the gas tank
measuring distance
memory barely perceives
I hear the tick tock
and think of you
the mileage markers
I once count
when the bus weaved 
through the mountains
to where you were
holed up
waiting for me to join
the gang
to feel your pulse
through the tips of my fingers
as they cup around you,
we imitating
the rhythm of life
the in and out
and up and down
the coming and going
movement that takes us nowhere
and yet everywhere
we ever wanted to be,
I feel the miles
wear on the tips of our lips
like the rub of rubber
on the road
that brought me to you,
that keeps on bringing me back,
even in memory,
that draws me into you
like a fruit fly
or humming bird
my wings buzzing
from the mere effort, 
my heart ticking
this way
until it stops 

death becomes her

Death becomes her, 
a dark shape in her light colored eyes, 
defining who she is from the inside,
giving her face definition
the way shadow might,
giving shape to a life
she might not otherwise have,
and a feature to which
other people gravitate,
the nectar out of which
love is churned
the edges of joy
always fringed with agony
her life a true romance
a dance on hot coals,
and hotter hearts,
her feet blistered
from the passage
that allows her to 
find peace at it end
the ballet streaming 
bits of her love
like confetti in the air,
bits of her that catch fire
in other people's hearts
that time nor distance
can extinguish
fueled by that unphanthomable thing
residing inside
the shadow of death
she has lived with
her whole life
a dance partner
only she can see
which loves her
because of it

jeans split like a skirt


You take her in with slow sips lettingletting her taste linger on the tip of tongue, savoring all of her over as long aa time as you can, to gulp heris all about, to understand heryou need to let her seep insideyou, filling you up until you aredrunk, and even then you only geta whiff of her flavor, even thenyou get just enough for you towant moreshe is so fragile you can breakher into pieces if you act too fast,blow glass figurine filled withliquid so pure you don't deserveher, and yet, she will give you asip if you ask just right, and anotherif you take her gift as a gift anddon't expect it.One sip and you have all of her, andyet not have her at all, she evaporatesif you did not drink her well, andstill she is too much to take ineven when she offers all she hasto you, an endless well of joy,not meant for men at all, and toointense for long duration.She is gone before you want hergone, and like some spirit on the wind, may or may not return.


I watch her feed as if watching a bird,
she is as tiny as a bird, but feeds like a lioness
her hunger coming up from every finger and toe,
and not just for food, when she looks at you
her eyes take you in, digesting everything about you
no secrets between you and her, no way to escape either
not because she is so lethal so much as you're need 
to get caught, one precious limb at a time,
and you regret only when you run out of limbs to give,
and then, you let her take vital organs, even
when you know you won't survive without them
because you know you can't live with her 
and she is the most significant species you have ever met,
someone you dare not let go extinct.
I watch her feed and know she is more than a bird
or perhaps a Phoenix, only through fire is she reborn
from burns inside of me, a fire that grows hotter
and more intense the more I watch her
and a fire in which I am always consumed

cool oil

Cool oil drips off her shouldersfrom where his fingers touchShe never meant to go where she wentnext, but so light was his touch,she could not resist. The gritof sand from the beach whereshe had laid out, gone, leaving onlyhis smooth embrace and hisface inches above herswhen at last they grasp thatwhich she suspected mightcome after that. This is no dreamfrom that month long visit to other beaches elsewhere in the world where hewas transformed fromstrange to friend the way acatapiller is to a butterfly they sharethe same cocoon feeling eachother chest to chest, hip tohip until for that briefmoment after the oil and touchafter the caress and the rub, they slip into each other, and become one, love, yes,'but a love that may or may notreoccur and so mustbe taken whole at that moment.

busy as a bee

She doesn't buzz, but she is that busy,
 floating from flower to flower
collecting nectar she needs to make honey,
if she has wings, I can't see them,
flapping too fast for any eye to catch,
a wisp in the twilight we believe we see
but we can't be certain of, 
a spirit we think we might touch,
but can't lay a finger on,
feeling a kiss of air against a cheek
before she moves on,
there are too many flowers to visit
and too little time in this short life she lives,
a need to taste each before she ceases
to taste at all, sad at the flowers
that wither behind her, glad at those
new buds springing up ahead,
this endless life of movement 
when life is movement and to cease
is to cease to exist, she keeps on moving
because she must and we must accept
the fact or lose vision of who and what she is,
this need to accept her for what she is
ad what she does without regret
if not without envy and wish we could
hold her don and own her
when nobody can.

moonlight won't turn her into anything

Moonlight won't turn her into anything day light hasn't alreadyexposed, what grand lips shehas, and hips, and eyes thatglow day or night, she defyingthe old myths, gobbling upheart after heart the waylittle Red Riding hood couldnever, huffing and puffinguntil we blow our own housesdown just to please her,she is every fairytalecome true, grim at firstthen with hopes of a happy ending, we are thebread crumbs she spreadthrought the woods to keepfrom wandering too deeplyinto the dark forest of love,following the trail backafter some misadventurehas stung hereach of us willing togive our souls to helpher heal -- yet knowingit can never be enoughand still we try

seeing her like that

"You don't mind seeing me like this,she asks drawn down fromher roof top sunbathing to answerthe door with me standing on thestoop like a vacuum cleanersalesman who has forgotten hispitch, stuttering out the words"of course not," and meaning eachone as a pledge, her thin body exposed except at the mostvital places, a 1960s innovationthat had men like me flocking to beaches to see what we couldnot see in any other setting,"this lets me get a tan allover," she says, part of a preparationfor a week-long trip withanother man she knows she willlet make love to her and herface still flushed with alook of anticipation as if shecan already feel his hand onher and the need for him tofeed something much deeper, something she has waited for, and is weary of waiting for, and somethingthat has almost nothing to dowith me or the imaginary vacuumcleaner I might want to sell

taking notice

Once you get her started

near silence

sweet streets of blood

Over the great divide

Over the great divide, her voicelike a neighbor you neversee, and know exists only by wayof rituals of the day, the answeredphone, the nervous laugh, that soundof sign you know means somethingshe must decide. You need onlyto see her face once to put aface to the sounds when they riseand fall on the far side -- smiles,frowns, grimaces, all painted onfrom memory and imagination --all is the need to see what shesees having seen so little is toforget what color her eyes are,if other than a reflection ofthe blues her voice brings, lookingcan always lie in ways hearing doesnot, the south of truth ringinglike church bells might in thisunholy place we both mustoccupy day to day -- sound hasechoes but no shadows, and itsshades reveals more than it hides, giving shape to feel she mightnot otherwise disclose -- we needno lips to read, though wesee these too as we hear her breathe--this place shaped by her soundscape, by her imagination, by whoshe is and what she has to say

blue velvet

Every time I see her ihear the song "she wore blue velvet" though blue everything she wore was everything but velvet, modeling her reality to fit her own taste from nail polish on her fingers and toes to those assessories that cling to her breasts and wrists like tropheys,wearing most a confidence that she is capable of anything and sees no limit to anything she wants -- and will in time get it. I already know that long after she is gone the strands of that song will linger in the air where she sits and walks, an eternal tribute to the electricity that I feel each time she comes and goes, a lingering tune that has me even now tempted to ask her to actually wear velvet